


Dying For This Love

by avintagekiss24



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel, Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Mob, Blood and Injury, Blood and Violence, Choking, Deaf Clint Barton, Drugs, F/M, Implied/Referenced Cheating, Mob Boss Bucky Barnes, Murder, Possessive Behavior, Possessive Bucky Barnes, Possessive Sex, References to Drugs, Rough Sex, Sex, Smut, Vaginal Fingering, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-02
Updated: 2020-12-02
Packaged: 2021-03-10 07:08:25
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,656
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27846610
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/avintagekiss24/pseuds/avintagekiss24
Summary: That was before. When you were Bucky’s girl. Now, you have a score to settle. That’s why you’re wearing Bucky’s favorite red satin dress, the one with the cuts that reach right up to the tops of your thighs, the tennis necklace he gifted you for your anniversary, and are fresh off of a mani/pedi and hair appointment. He’s going to regret the day he fucked with you.
Relationships: James "Bucky" Barnes & Reader, James "Bucky" Barnes/Reader
Comments: 11
Kudos: 153





	Dying For This Love

**Author's Note:**

> As always, written with a black reader in mind. You can catch me on tumblr @ avintagekiss24

It’s a brisk night; the air biting your skin as the door of the yellow cab opens. A hand stretches out in your direction, grasping tight as you slide your palm into it and pull yourself onto the curb. A gentle smile crosses onto your lips as you adjust the white faux fur coat over your shoulders, letting it slip down to expose your deep brown skin; your neck and chest as your tennis chain necklace glints underneath the street lamps and the setting sun. You sweep your hair off of your neck and over your shoulder, threading your freshly manicured fingers through the silky strands as the ends fall against your hip, a shiver running the length of your spine as the wind whips again. 

“Let’s get you inside, hmm?”

The New York streets are busy tonight. Cabs line the sidewalks, dropping off and picking up, dodging J walkers as they bound across the busy street. You keep your hand in your suitors’ as he guides you towards the small restaurant, your heels clicking against the concrete, the red satin material of your dress bunched in your free hand to prevent it from dragging behind you. 

Tony’s is packed, but that’s nothing new for a Friday evening. It’s nothing new for  _ any _ evening— Tony’s is like a second home to you, you used to be here so often. The only difference tonight is your company. You’re used to sweeping through the door on Bucky’s arm, used to the looks, the  _ fondness _ in everyone’s eyes for the two of you. Used to being seated at the best table in the place, the unlimited top shelf booze, the best cuts of meat… the best of the best— anything for Bucky and his girl. 

That was before. When you were Bucky’s girl. Now, you have a score to settle. That’s why you’re wearing Bucky’s  _ favorite _ red satin dress, the one with the cuts that reach right up to the tops of your thighs, the tennis necklace he gifted you for your anniversary, and are fresh off of a mani/pedi and hair appointment. He’s going to regret the day he fucked with you. 

A smile spreads on your face as you approach the door, Fury quirking his eyebrow, “Long time no see. Who’s uh, who’s this?”

You slide your arm around Fury’s neck, pecking his cheek, “This is my date, Pietro Maximoff.” You glance back at the curly headed man, “Pietro, this is Nick Fury, Brooklyn’s most famous bouncer.”

Pietro extends his hand, “Your reputation precedes you, Fury.” 

You watch as Fury drops his eye to the outstretched hand, noticeably hesitating, “Maximoff, you said?”

Pietro shoves his hands into his pocket as he nods slowly, “Indeed.”

Fury clears his throat, but opens the door, grabbing your arm to hold you back as Pietro passes through the threshold, “Do you know what you’re doing?” he whispers, “You know who that is, right?”

“I know  _ exactly _ who it is,” you answer, “I’m fine, Nick.”

You take another step, but Fury stops you again, “Bucky isn’t going to like this.”

“I don’t care what Bucky isn’t going to like. He should have thought about that before all of this.”

“The Maximoffs are  _ dangerous _ .” Fury warns, his voice low, lips set in a hard line, “They’re on thin ice with Bucky as it is— you’re going to start a war.”

You laugh gently, rolling your eyes, “Who? Little ol’ me? Nick, I’m a grown woman. I can take care of myself, now, are you going to let me in, or what?”

Truth is, you know exactly what you’re doing. Every move you’ve made since you and Bucky broke up has been calculated. He embarrassed you, parading that whore around town as if you weren’t gonna find out— even had the bitch calling your phone. So, it’s time to embarrass  _ him _ . Word will spread like wildfire, _ Bucky’s girl seen with a Maximoff  _ — the only other crime family in New York that’s worth a damn anymore— that is, besides the Barnes’. 

Fury sighs a heavy sigh, his heart straining for you, although he'll never admit it outloud. He’s just as guilty as Bucky— as all of them who knew and said nothing. He steps to the side, unwrapping his fingers from around your arm and letting you pass into the crowded restaurant. 

The hanging lights lining the windows are dimmed low, the clanging of silverware against plates, and a low murmur of seemingly hundreds of voices fill your ears. As soon as you step into the place and loop your arm around Pietro’s, all eyes fall on you. A hush falls over the tables. Even the hostess blinks, glancing over her shoulder nervously before she plasters a fake smile on her face and grabs two menus. 

Pietro, and the rest of the Maximoff clan don’t come around this part of town very often, not anymore. Bucky and Sam’s fists set a few of Pietro’s cousins straight after encroaching on Bucky’s territory. The two men were lenient— they let the cousins limp home with their teeth in ziplock baggies instead of having the cousins shipped to Django and Max— Pietro’s father and uncle respectively— homes in body bags. Tensions had been high between the two families ever since. Both tiptoeing around the other, careful not to be the ones to ignite the final fuse. 

Who knew you’d be the one to have the honor.

“Can we have the booth in the back please, MJ?”

Her eyes widen at you as her mouth drops open, “I— I um, I don’t,”

“Well, surely no one is sitting there?” you ask, batting your eyes as you cut her off.

MJ glances down at her watch, before tucking her wild, lose hair behind her ear, “Not yet, but Bucky will be he—”

“Please, MJ.” you state firmly, tipping your head towards her and smiling that faux sweet smile you’ve perfected over the years. 

Eyes follow the two of you as you follow the hostess, winding through the small, white table cloth covered tables towards your booth in the back— you and Bucky’s old booth. You spot Steve at a table in the corner, two goons standing on either side of him as he counts stack after stack of cold, hard cash— this week’s take— jotting down totals in his notebook. He glances up quickly, then does a double take as you push into the booth, sliding along the red leather seat. 

Steven Grant Rogers, one of two people that Bucky trusts his life with. The tall blonde was once not so tall, not so chiseled. Just a sickly kid with a crooked back and one hell of a mouth. He and Bucky hit it off like gangbusters in grade school and by highschool, after Steve shot up and out, they were virtually inseparable. And still, nothing’s changed, twenty years and counting. 

You lift your hand to him, wiggling your fingers as your eyes link. He sighs heavy, those big blue eyes softening as his lips part. He places his large hand over his heart as the corners of his mouth tip upwards quickly before he slides his eyes towards your date for the evening. Then, his lips snap shut, his eyes squint and darken as he sucks his teeth. He leans back in his chair pushing his chin upward, crossing his arms over his chest as Pietro nods in his direction. 

“He still doesn’t like me much, huh?” Pietro smiles at you, taking your hand in his.

You shrug, “Steve’s a lover, not a fighter, don’t pay him any mind.” 

A giggle flirts on the tip of your tongue as Pietro presses his warm lips to the backs of your fingers before he nuzzles his cheek and chin into them, “It’s hard to pay anyone any mind with you looking like that.”

“Oh,” you smile, waving him off. 

“I mean it, you look incredible tonight. That dress fits you like it was made for you and you alone.”

Your smile widens as you blink back towards Steve, his stare scorching you right to the bone. The smile on your face drops slightly as you swallow hard, eyes fluttering as a pang of uncertainty flashes through you. He’s angry,  _ hurt _ even, and the thought unsettles you for just a moment. You love Steve, and he loves you— you thought at first an extension of his love for Bucky, but it wasn’t. Bucky had plenty of women before you, none of which any of the family really gave two seconds of thought to— until you. As Bucky fell for you, so did the rest of them, and you them. You were all a family, brought together by Bucky Barnes.

It seems so long ago now.

Pietro’s voice fades into the background as you and Steve stare at each other, a silent conversation passing between you. Steve leans up, placing his elbows on the table, his thick, long fingers covering his lips and mouth as his thumb cradles his chin. He drops his eyes from yours for a second or two before he slowly drags them back to meet yours, worry flashing through them. 

You haven’t really thought this through, but you’re angry too. You’re hurt  _ too _ . Steve stood by and watched Bucky make a fool of you. Watched him put that woman up in an apartment, floated her cash, showered her with gifts. Stood by and watched Bucky throw his arm around her neck and nuzzle into her, kiss her cheek, slithered his tongue along her skin. Helped him lie. 

You thought Bucky loved you; you thought they all did. 

Clint, Steve’s second shadow taps him on the shoulder, his phone in his hand. Steve tears his eyes from yours as Clint starts to sign, the short but deadly man’s gaze turning towards you quickly before he blinks back at Steve. Your heart starts to beat faster as you make out the communication. 

**He’s on his way.**

Steve nods quickly, placing his flat hand to his lips before he pushes them away and downward slightly,  **thank you.**

Clint’s eyes catch yours again, a small smile stretching on them before he drops his head and rolls his shoulders. When he picks his head up again, the smile is gone, and he’s professional once more, scanning the dimly lit restaurant for any imminent danger towards Steve.

“Are you alright?” Pietro’s voice floats towards you, dragging you back into his present company. His eyes bounce back and forth between yours as he tilts his head, a slow smile spreading, “You still with me, doll?”

“Yes,” you breathe, smiling wide and hard as a waiter approaches the table, “White wine or red?”

-

“Do you think MJ will be there tonight?”

Bucky chuckles as he slides a black and rose gold ring over his finger. He reaches for another, a thicker one with a large red ruby in the center and pushes it over his pinky before he grabs for his diamond encrusted Rolex.

“I’m sure she’s working tonight, just relax.”

Peter bounces his leg nervously, rolling his eyes as he glances around the spacious bedroom from his spot on the edge of Bucky’s bed. Bucky glances back at him through the mirror, a lopsided smile curling up on his face before he looks back at himself, brushing his hand over his hair. He spritzes some cologne before pulling open the top drawer of his dresser and runs his hand over the perfectly placed sunglasses, dragging his bottom lip into his mouth as he decides which to wear. 

“Buck, you almost ready?”

“Calm down,” Bucky scolds immediately, plucking a pair of thick, dark rimmed, purple shaded glasses from their place, “What are you so nervous for? MJ already likes you.”

Peter perks up at the words, his lips parting as his eyes widen, “How— how do you— how do you know that? Did she say something? Where did you—”

Bucky laughs again as he grabs his suit jacket from the hanger, shrugging into it before he pulls at the sleeves, adjusting it gently as he stares at his reflection in the mirror, “I can just tell. It’s easy to know when a girl likes you.” He wipes at his shoulder before turning on his heel, “Stand up, let me look at you.”

Peter stands, tugging on the bottom of his suit jacket before running his hands through his brown hair. Bucky moves towards him, smoothing his hands over the younger man’s shoulders and arms, “What do you got this buttoned all the way up for? You look like a nerd, come on, open this up,” Bucky mumbles, pushing a few of the small white buttons through the holes of Peter’s crisp, white shirt, “There we go. Alright, listen,” he starts, pulling the small hand gun from his waistband, “You keep this with you at all times, do you hear me?”

“I hear you.” Peter nods.

“ _ At all times _ ,” Bucky stresses, “One’s in the chamber, so be careful— and don’t go waving it around like you're crazy. You don’t want to scare MJ. Tuck it in your waistband at the back.”

“Yeah, yeah, yeah, I got it,  _ I got it. _ ” 

Bucky watches as his cousin tucks the small pistol away, just how he told him, before he adjusts Peter’s jacket again, “You don’t move without Bruce, understand? You don’t leave the restaurant, you don’t go to the bathroom, you don’t go out for a smoke without him.”

“Buck,” Peter rolls his eyes, “ _ I know _ , I’m not a little kid.”

“I know, I know,” Bucky starts, cupping Peter’s cheek in his hand, “You’re my favorite cousin, I worry about you. I gotta protect you.”

“I’m your only cousin,” Peter laughs, his brown eyes bouncing back and forth between Bucky’s blues, “Thanks for looking out for me.”

“I love you. I’ll always be here to look out for you,” he drops his hand to Peter’s shoulder, squeezing gently, “Go get in the car, I’ll be there in a minute.”

There’s a knock at the door before Sam pops his head in, “A word?”

Peter rolls his eyes again as he moves towards the door, “We’re never going to leave.”

“Five minutes!” Bucky calls as Peter disappears around the corner, “What’s up?”

Sam takes a breath, his dark eyes serious and stern, “There’s...a problem.”

“What kind of problem?”

“It’s Maximoff. He’s at the restaurant.”

Bucky quirks his eyebrow, a dangerous smile crossing his lips, “Is he now?”

“And he’s not alone. Fury texted me this,” Sam turns his sleek iphone around, showing Bucky a picture of Pietro Maximoff, all smiles as he leans over the table, hand in hand with you, “They showed up about ten minutes ago.”

Bucky clenches his jaw as he takes a deep, hard breath, his lips set in a hard line. Anger prickles his scalp as his face flushes red, his body radiating a sudden heat. Clearing his throat, he adjusts his weight, shifting from one foot to the other as he cracks his knuckles, cutting his eyes towards his bed— the bed that the two of you used to share. 

He got stupid. Brave.  _ Brazen _ . She meant nothing to him— just some girl with big eyes and long legs, that held onto his every word. Not that you didn’t do exactly the same, not that you didn’t look at him as if he hung the moon and the stars. She was an airhead, nothing but body and blonde hair, stupid jokes and an immature sense of humor that at times irritated the holy hell out of him, but she was a conquest all the same. Almost a right of passage, a solidifier of status. Every boss has a girl on the side, that’s just how it is, how it always has been.

You thought he was different. 

_ He _ thought he was different.

Until he saw that cute little blonde giving him the eye at the back of the club, had elbows in his ribs from a few of his buddies, egging him on. Bucky ignored it at first, turning his attention back to the dancers, the loud, thumping music, the low lighting and the glitter in the air. The alcohol kept flowing, thin lines of white powder cut onto small, round mirrors with rolled up hundred dollar bills. 

He woke up in an unfamiliar bed, long blonde hair spread out over his face, fair, naked skin crushed up against his. 

Apologizing never came easy to Bucky, not even with you. He just crept out of the apartment, vowing on the ride home that he’d never do it again— until he did— and then he just got out of control. It went to his head. King Bucky of Brooklyn couldn’t be touched. Not by anybody; not even you.

Now, despite his outward appearance, he’s a shell. Sitting up most nights on the floor of his empty loft, staring at the bed you used to occupy. Your books still sit on the nightstand. Wishing he still smelled your flowery perfume, your strawberry body wash wafting from the bathroom. Missing that soft, sweet little sleepy smile inviting him into bed in the middle of the night. The feeling of your deep brown skin against his. Your honeyed whimpers, the tiny squeaks and gasps as he rutted into you, your manicured hands and pretty lips wrapped around his cock, driving him insane.

_ Bucky, I love you _ … you were almost always awestruck when you said it. Like you couldn’t believe that he was yours; when in fact, he was the lucky one. 

Sleep evades him now. Every time he closes his eyes, he just sees yours— wide, wet with emotion as it spilled down your cheeks. Your voice once animated and bubbly, now brittle with pain and the realization that he didn’t love you, not the way you thought he had. He had a choice then; fall to his knees, wrap his arms around you and beg your forgiveness, promise to spend every day making it up to you, or stand tall. Adjust his jacket impatiently, show no remorse, tell you to grow up— that you’re overreacting. Shrug defiantly, because he’s a  _ man  _ and this is what men  _ do _ . 

Like the  _ man _ he is, he chose the latter. Now, he’s alone. Now, the love of his life, his  _ most _ precious, is hugged up with the enemy; and he’s got no one to blame but himself. 

“Steve is there, I can have him and Clint  _ escort _ them out, if you’d like.”

Bucky keeps his eyes on the picture, taking the phone from Sam’s fingers, zooming in on you; that dress he loves on you so, so much. He finally drags his eyes up to Sam’s, snarling his lip a little as he shakes his head, “Leave ‘em. She’s lashing out.”

Sam scoffs, rolling his eyes in disbelief, “You’re going to let Pietro Maximoff parade your girl around town like this?  _ On your turf? _ ” his voice sharp, crisp, “No, that’s  _ disrespectful _ , Bucky. They both need to be taught a lesson.”

“Hey,” Bucky steps in, balling the lapels of Sam’s suit in his hands and yanking him close, his eyes hard as they bounce back and forth, “You leave her out of this. I mean it, nobody touches her.  _ Ever _ . No matter what she does.”

Sam sighs heavy, his jaw tight as he blinks away, “I didn’t… that’s not how I meant. I wouldn't dare hurt her, you know that, but that fuckin’ Maximoff,”

“I know,” Bucky releases him, smoothing down his jacket, taking a breath, “I’m sorry, I just—”

“I know.” Sam nods, “It’s alright, boss.”

Sam knows James Buchanan Barnes better than anybody else in the world— better than Steve, better than you, better than his own sister and mother know him. That’s his job, to  _ know _ his clients; their likes, their dislikes, temperaments, moods. To think things before they think them, to provide something before they even know they want it. That’s what makes Sam good at his job. 

Sam knows that Bucky was always a little reckless, but confident, hyper aware of himself and his surroundings, almost not even needing hired help. There’s a nasty streak in Bucky, one that almost scares  _ him _ . A streak that has only  _ really _ been tapped once or twice. A streak that craves chaos and blood, that revels in the power he’s amassed and the pain he can cause a body. Sam Wilson knows James Buchanan Barnes. 

He doesn’t know  _ this _ Bucky. 

This Bucky is hurt. This Bucky is unhinged— drinking more, drugging more, that nasty streak prodded  _ easier _ since you’ve been gone. Bucky trusts Sam more than anyone else in this world, but even he’s been victim of a sudden, unrestricted wrath as of late. Sam knows why of course, but he doesn’t dare verbalize it. 

Sam’s been in this line of business long enough. He’s seen this life chew people up and spit them out like they were nothing, no matter their status, or family. No matter their rank. He hopes he doesn’t see it happen to Bucky, especially not for a dumb blonde with a tight ass. 

“Do you still want to go to Tony’s? I can call over to Dominic’s, I’m sure they can get you a table.”

Bucky slips the expensive sunglasses over his eyes before he starts twisting one of the rings around his finger, “No. Tony’s it is.”

He steps past Sam, his expensive loafers clicking against the hardwood floor as he goes, buttoning his jacket. It’s been a while since he’s broken someone’s face.

-

You’re mid-sentence when Bucky breezes into the restaurant. You’re leaned in close, hand in hand with Pietro, murmuring and giggling low when the door opens. Sam enters first, his dark eyes scanning the floor for any perceived threats or dangers before he steps to the side. Then, just like some kind of movie star, in walks Bucky. His long arm is slung over Peter’s shoulders, his crystal blue eyes covered by designer sunglasses, the rings on his fingers glinting underneath the artificial lights of the hanging bulbs. 

Your eyes go wide, your lips part as all the breath in your body evaporates. He looks good; a sight for sore eyes— it’s been a few months since you’ve seen him last. He’s never one to wear the same suit twice, and tonight is no different. Tonight’s poison is Dolce & Gabbana, black, with thin, white horizontal and vertical lines; slim fit to accentuate his bulging biceps and that small waist. 

His black dress shirt is undone one button too many, exposing smooth skin and a silver necklace, giving you flashbacks of lazy mornings; your fingers playing with that silver chain, skimming over his thick chest as it rose and fell with deep breaths as he slept. 

It’s like he’s moving in slow motion, you’re so enamored. Bucky nods and smiles at the waitstaff, showing off his perfect set of teeth— his canines— and you tighten your thighs. Heat blooms across your skin as you remember those teeth sinking into your neck, nibbling at your ear as the two of you laid on your sides, him rutting into you from behind, deep and slow, his massive hand caressing your hip and thigh; sweet words falling from his lips.

You  _ really _ didn’t think this little plan of yours through.

Suddenly, your eyes are linked with his. Gone are the Tom Ford sunglasses shielding the most expressive part of his face. Steel, cold blues sear into your brown orbs, then drop to your hand still nestled within Pietros. Bucky cocks his head at the sight and you can see the anger flash through him— his strong jaw tightening, eyes narrowing. He continues to stare at you as MJ tries to explain why his favorite booth is taken, how she can sit him somewhere,  _ anywhere _ else.

Within a beat, he’s moving towards you, Peter at his side, Sam flanking him, MJ— eyes wide, like a deer in headlights— fumbling nervously behind him. Pietro clears his throat in anticipation, the adrenaline and tension skyrocketing for the both of you. You blink back at the curly headed Pietro, plastering a fake smile before you swallow hard and harsh, and adjust in your seat.

“Well, well, well,” Bucky grins when he reaches the edge of the booth, arm still slung over Peter’s shoulders, “Look what the cat drug in.”

You huff, rolling your eyes before cutting them towards him, your lips pressed in a tight line, “ _ Bucky _ .” Your tone abrasive.

His smirk grows. A gust of air pushes out of his nose as he chuckles deep and then hums, “Sweetheart.” 

His eyes dance back and forth with yours, prompting you to turn away and face Pietro as you link your fingers together and rest your chin on them. That’s when Bucky too turns his attention to your date, his head tilting, his smile turning sinister as the two men stare daggers at each other. 

“MJ, doll,” Bucky starts, tipping his head towards Steve’s table, “Why don’t you seat my dear cousin with Steve over there, huh?”

“Of-of course, Mr. Barnes,” she obliges, “Come on Peter.”

Bucky breaks his staring contest with Pietro just long enough to eye Peter and MJ, making sure they’re both out of earshot before he turns back to the two of you, lifting his hand to twist the ring around his finger slowly, “Fancy seeing you here, Maximoff. I thought Sam and I made our point pretty fuckin’ clear the last time a few of your kind stepped on this side of the bridge.”

“Last I checked, this was a free country, Barnes.” Pietro smiles, his eyes wide and sparkly, a low grade anger bubbling just below the surface as he addresses Bucky. He shrugs, “I’m just trying to treat my lady to a nice meal,” he lifts your hand, kissing the backs of your fingers, “Isn’t that right, baby?”

“Yes, darling.” You purr, batting your eyelids.

You cut your eyes back towards Bucky when he sucks his teeth, dropping his head as he nods slowly— still spinning the silver, skull shaped ring, “ _ Your _ lady, huh?”

“One man’s  _ trash _ is another man’s treasure,” you assert, pushing your chin forward defiantly, “Now, if you’ll excuse us—” 

“You’re right Sam,” Bucky sighs, rolling his shoulders before he glances back at the stoic bodyguard, “This prick does need to be taught a lesson.”

Before any of you can react, Bucky lunges forward, grabbing Pietro by the lapels of his suit, yanking him out of the booth. The wine bottle topples over, the  _ splat _ of the red liquid hitting the floor filling your ears as you gasp and the rest of the plates and silverware rattle against the table. There’s a quick shout from someone, loud gasps, more silverware clanging before a hush falls over the room, all eyes on Bucky as he pushes Pietro violently, sending him to the ground. 

“Bucky!”

He whips his head towards you, eyes dark and hard, lip snarled. The anger in them strikes you, makes you inhale, stills the breath in your chest. You freeze right in your spot, half sitting, half standing, lips parted as your eyes bounce back and forth between his. Bucky runs his tongue over his teeth and drops his eyes down your body— sneering all the while. Your heart sinks. 

He’s  _ disgusted _ with you. Like you’re just some common whore.

Bucky turns away, reaching down to pull Pietro back up to his feet before he shoves him again, pushing him towards the back door, “Up, up, up. Come on, keep fuckin’ movin’.”

You, and the rest of the restaurant, watch as Bucky pushes the stumbling Pietro into the kitchen, Sam bringing up the rear. Then, as if nothing happened at all, everyone returns to their meals, a dull buzz of chatter resuming, waiters and waitresses flitting around to attend to their tables. You wish it shocked you, but, this  _ is _ Brooklyn. They’ve all seen worse.

Tossing your napkin to the table, you step out from the booth, bunching your dress in your hands and start towards the kitchen, only to have a large hand wrap around your arm. You shrug out of the grasp and turn on your heel, coming face to face with Steve, “ _ Don’t _ ,” you growl, pointing a finger in his face.

You turn and take a step, but he grabs you again, whirling you around, “Now just hang on. You don’t—”

“Let me go, Steve!”

“I don’t want you getting hurt.”

“Oh,” you laugh, eyes wide as they dart back and forth, “ _ Now _ you don’t want me getting hurt?”

The words ground him, not so humbly. He drops his hand from your arm, pushes his eyes away. He throws one hand on his hip, threads the other through his slicked back blonde hair as he glances off towards the windows, blinking slow. Then he turns, and walks back to his table, where Peter stares over at you before shifting his gaze back to Steve. 

You push your way through the kitchen, long, quick strides eating up the tile floor as your dress drags behind you. Pushing through the back door and snapping your head to the left, you spot Sam, gun in hand, facing you as Bucky goes to town on Pietro’s face behind him. You rush down the alley, the clicks of your heels bouncing off the brick buildings, the air cooling your hot skin. 

Sam keeps his eyes on you as you approach, lifting his hand but keeping his gun trained on the ground, “Go back inside.” He warns, “I mean it.” You try to side step him, but his long arm wraps around your middle, “ _ Please _ , just go back inside.”

Bucky pulls the beaten Pietro to his feet and just holds him there, head tilted up slightly, a smile on his face as he stares at him— clearly enjoying this. Blood stains Bucky’s knuckles, a few droplets trickling down the back of his hand and absorbing into his black dress shirt. 

“You are fuckin’ pathetic, you know that?” Bucky goads, before he punches Pietro square in the jaw, sending him into the bricks of the restaurant, “You’re not even putting up a fight.”

“Bucky! Stop! Stop it!” You scream, struggling against Sam as he holds you back.

He doesn’t even hear you. You’ve only seen him like this once or twice, but each time it scared you shitless. This was the Bucky Barnes that everyone was afraid of, a side of him he tried to keep away from you as best he could. This Bucky is ruthless—  _ deadly _ . His vision tunnels as the smell of blood fills his nose, the sound of crunching bone stuffing his ears. The chaos and adrenaline clouding his mind. When he gets like this, it usually takes more than just Sam to pry him off, his anxiety piqued, the anger flushing through him keeping him hopped up for hours.

He would fuck you right into the mattress after brawls like this. Filthy. Hips depraved, teeth and nails biting into your skin. Hard smacks against your ass, belts around your wrists. Rough and unforgiving, leaving you sore for days. He liked you that way. Liked knowing that every time you moved, every time your muscles stretched, you were reminded of him— of where he’d been.

Pietro doubles over in pain, spitting out blood, deep red with a splash of white— some of his teeth— before coughing wet and loud. One of Bucky’s knees slams into his stomach, knocking the wind right out of him, sending him to the ground again. Bucky kicks him swiftly and steps back when Pietro begins coughing more, blood spraying out onto the concrete below. Pietro is stood back up on his feet, swaying gently with unsteadiness before he’s tossed like a ragdoll across the alley, landing in a pile of trash bags. 

“Bucky!” You shout again, pushing roughly past Sam, “Stop it!” You grab his arm but he shrugs away, knocking you back a few steps. 

Bucky bends, grabbing a fist full of Pietro’s bloody suit, lifting him slightly to land another brutal punch to his mouth, the sound of bones crunching underneath his blood stained knuckles cracking off of the bricks. Sam has you again by the waist, trying to force you back towards the restaurant, but you slip from his grasp, heading back towards the incensed Bucky.

You shove him hard, the sturdy man stumbling just slightly, knocking him off kilter as you push past, dropping to your knees to lift Pietro into a sitting position, “Pietro, baby, come on, get up. Get up, baby.”

“ _ Baby _ ?” Bucky seethes, shouting, “Baby! Ha!” He laughs, pacing back and forth, flexing his fingers before he balls them again, clearing teetering between sanity and crazed depravity, “You hear her?” he motions to Sam, “Baby, she says.”

Pietro grunts as you struggle to lift him to his feet, blood and spit bubbling out of his mouth, strings of the mixture hanging from his split bottom lip, “Come on, I got you. I got you.” You whisper, slipping an arm around his waist, stumbling with him as he mumbles incoherently. 

Bucky’s sharp laughter fills the alley, surrounding you as you start to move past him. Pietro’s heavy weight rests against you, his head lulling as he struggles to keep conscious, smearing blood on your shoulders and dress. 

“I’m a fucking  _ King _ !” Bucky simmers, agitated and quickly descending into his rage, slamming his fingers into his chest as he screams, “I run this goddamn city, and don’t you  _ ever _ fucking forget it!”

“You’re insane!” you hiss, voice trembling with emotion, eyes filling with hot tears, “You’ve lost your mind, Bucky—”

A sharp scream emanates from you when Bucky grabs your arm, pulling you hard, his grip bruising your flesh, “I haven’t lost shit,” acid drips from his every word, “I won’t have this— you don’t seem to understand that you are  _ mine _ . Nobody touches what’s mine.”

A tear slips down your cheek as you push out hard, audible breaths, your eyes wide and shiny and wet while they bounce between his, “You’re hurting me.”

The words are small— ambivalent, as you're scared, angry, but somehow sad that this is what the two of you have become. Bucky’s pupils are blown, eyes wild and detached as he breathes heavy. 

“Bucky,” Sam starts, sliding his free hand over Bucky’s shoulder slowly, squeezing gently, not wanting to startle him, “You’re hurting her, Buck.” He peers at the side of his face, blinking slow, voice docile, “Let her go, it’s alright. It’s okay.”

Bucky drops his eyes to the hand wrapped tight around your arm, nails digging into your skin, blood— some of his, some of Pietro’s, maybe some of yours— splashed across your skin. He lifts those eyes again, watery from the chill of the wind. Unwrapping his fingers, he lets you go, reaching for his face to wipe drops of blood from his cheek. 

Sniffling hard, he turns his head, swallowing as he closes his eyes, trying to collect himself. Blue eyes are back on you again as he chews on the inside of his cheek, snarling his lip, “I’m going to get you back,” a smile tugs on the corners of his lips as he sinks his teeth into the bottom one, “You don’t have a choice, sweetheart.”

You shake your head slowly, pushing your chin outward in defiance, “Yes I do.”

His mouth falls open as the gravity of your words settle on him. You prop Pietro against your hip and side, grabbing the wrist that’s slung over your shoulder and walk slowly towards the street, leaving Bucky and Sam to watch as you depart. Bucky laughs again, this time out of shock and anger and he balls his fists, his nails digging into his palm, drawing bright red drops of blood. 

“ _ Fuck! _ ” is all you hear as you turn onto the street, each step pulling your further and further away, followed by a thud— no doubt Bucky’s fist against the brick wall.

-

The music in your ears is soft as you stare out of the windows of the train as it blows by stop after stop. Bucky hated the subway; hated you still using it after all this time.  _ Creeps and perverts are on the subway, babe. It’s not safe, I’ll send for a car. _

It was calming. Gave you time to think. You could waste hours riding the subway, nobody expecting anything from you, needing you, wanting you to  _ talk _ .

You’ve gotten back into riding the subway after Bucky. Today was one of those days where you just got on and rode it to wherever, and then back again. Snoh Aalegra in your ears, a low hum vibrating in your throat, your eyes scanning the car as random people come and go. You noticed Clint pretty early, hopping on the train maybe a stop or two after you, but you chose not to acknowledge him— wanting to keep your peace of mind.

A constant tail has followed you around the city, both before and after being with Bucky. It’s just his way of keeping you safe. Keeping you his— tracking you. Maybe you should be angry— but that’s calming too. Knowing someone is watching out for you, regardless. 

Clint keeps his hat low, his blue eyes flipping over towards you every now and again as he stands, holding onto the metal pole. He mainly just stares out of the windows, maybe using the time to think too. 

Once your mind starts to settle, stops hyper analyzing the barrage of angry text messages from the Maximoff family, vowing revenge against Bucky, wanting your head for luring him into the lion’s den, you stand when your stop comes up for the seemingly hundredth time that day. You toss your hair over your shoulder, taking a breath as the train slows and comes to a stop, the doors sliding open. 

You step onto the platform, shoving your hands into the pockets of your designer jacket, taking a few steps before you turn suddenly, catching Clint just as he steps off the train. Holding up your hand, you wiggle your fingers before signing quickly,  **I’m fine.**

**I know,** he smiles,  **but all the same, I’d like to walk you home. I’ll keep my distance.**

You blink at him, slowly, a smile spreading on your face as you nod. Clint was one of your favorites— the jealousy that spread through you when he got moved to Steve’s detail was deep. 

He keeps his promise, laying back as you bob and weave through the city, up to your stoop, where he waits at the bottom of the stairs, glancing up and down the street as you shove your key into the door. The old, rickety elevator sends you to the top floor slowly, coming to a hard, shaky stop once your loft comes into view. The sticky gate always gives you hell, having to pull it back and forth a few times before you can finally push it all the way open. 

The dark apartment is illuminated by the small lamp sitting just below the large window to your right as you turn it on, peeking out to find Clint staring up in your direction. As soon as the light pops on and he notices you at the window, he starts down the street, hands in the pockets of his leather jacket. 

“Have a nice ride?”

A sharp gasp rises in your throat, a thin yelp accompanying it. That’s when you notice the back of a head, tilted slightly, the wide shoulders of a man sitting in the center of your brown leather couch. The moon splashes in from the three paneled windows, covered by thin white curtains, embedded in the brick wall, your houseplants accentuating them.

You toss your keys to the table with a clatter, pull your small crossbody bag over your head and drop it to the floor, “I did.”

“What were you thinking about?” You scoff loud at the question, rolling your eyes before you huff, drawing a deep chuckle out of him, “I know you better than yourself, love.”

“What are you doing here, Bucky?”

He doesn’t answer. He keeps his head tilted, his arms shifting slightly as he plays with something in his hands. You take a few steps towards him, getting just close enough to peer over his shoulder, finding an old photo album in his lap as he gingerly flips through the pages, taking his time to examine each photo one by one. 

“Remember this? Our trip to Miami a few summers ago.” 

Longing, his voice. Kind of sad as he runs his fingers down a picture of you in your bikini— one he picked out of course, but it looked phenomenal on you, just like he said it would. You were sentimental like that, making photo albums in this digital age, gifting it to him for his birthday. A handwritten note— a declaration of your love for him— scribbled on the inside of the front page, a bright red kiss print at the bottom,  _ always yours _ in your delicate, old world cursive. 

You had no idea that he’d kept it after you left. 

He flips the page and there’s an eight by ten of the two of you on the beach. Your favorite picture. Him in his trunks, black tattoos littered across his chest, dark sunglasses over his eyes, his chin pushed upward and forward, a smirk on his lips. His long arm is slung over your shoulders, hooking your neck, pulling you into him. Warm palm pressed against your chest, his thick, long fingers dancing just over the tops of your breasts. Possessive— but you liked being owned. 

You hold onto his forearm, a bright smile on your face, your eyes big and warm, lit up with your love. Hip to hip, skin to skin, Peter’s finger just in the corner of the picture. Sadness creeps into your chest as you stare down at it, your breath getting heavier, chest rising and falling harder. That was a different time— a time where he loved you just as much as you loved him. 

“What are you doing here?” you ask again, a little forceful this time, a little harder than how you meant it to come across. 

“Remember that big bed? How soft it was— you didn’t want to leave it most days. Took me literally an hour every morning to wake your ass up.”

“Bucky—”

“God, you felt so good underneath me in that bed. I loved fucking you to the sounds of the ocean. I’d have to clamp your mouth shut with my hand to keep you from waking Peter.”

Your body tightens— your sex clamps down around nothing at the memory. His hips rolling against yours, fingers in your mouth, hot, hushed words in your ear as he fucked you. The waves crashing up on the beach just outside your room, Peter’s soft snores floating towards you from that lumpy couch just outside the door. A soft, warm breeze blowing in. It was a simpler time then, before Bucky was the _King_ _of New York_ , before his ego and status went to his head. Before he became _boss_.

“We can get back there.”

The words sting as they leave his lips. You shake your head, backing away from the couch, “Bucky, please go.”

“I can get us back there. We can go back, okay? I can fix this.”

He’s standing now, moving around the couch, moving towards you, pulling you into his body. You grab your bottom lip with your teeth, shaking your head harder, your cheeks heating, eyes wetting. Bucky’s grabbing your face, cupping your cheeks in his warm palms and big hands, pressing his forehead into yours.

“Bucky,” you whimper, your face straining, not wanting the emotion to spill, “Please. Please.”

Pathetic. You sound pathetic and small. Your words saying one thing, but your tone saying another. 

“You are mine,” he whispers, pressing soft, small kisses against your cheeks, your nose, your eyelids, “You are mine, and I am yours.  _ Always— _ nobody can take that away, nobody.”

Fast, flurried words rush down over you. Muffled and mumbled between kisses. You sink; sink into him, his body, his warmth, his sturdiness. Wrap your arms around his waist, nuzzle into his neck as his hand wraps around the back of your neck— that possessiveness, so familiar. So safe. 

“I fucked up,” he admits through forced breaths, “I shouldn’t— I fucked… I regret every second that I haven’t been with you. Every single fucking second, baby.”

He kisses you hard— and you let him. Let him devour you right there. Crushing you up against his chest, your arms go limp by your sides as you moan, hot and heavy, into his wet mouth. Letting him eat it up. 

You don’t stay pendulous for long. Fingers slip into his soft hair, gripping, grabbing, pulling; messing him up, ruining the perfect. 

You separate when neither of you can breathe, dragging in gulps of air, lips flushed red and swollen. He still holds your face, your thin fingers still threaded with his short tresses. Eyes closed, mouths hanging. 

“He shouldn’t have touched you. I was gonna kill him, I was going to kill him for touching you.” He growls, the words making you shudder.

“I hate her,” you cry, letting the tears fall, “I hate her for taking you from me.”

“I can’t stand it, I can’t stand it. I won’t have you out in the world without me. You’re mine— I love you. I love you, I, I fucked up.  _ I’m sorry. _ Forgive me. Please, please forgive me.”

You nod, fast, eyes still closed, bottom lip still sucked into your mouth as he serenades you, “She doesn’t belong to you the way I do. You regret it, don’t you? You regret going after her because you realize  _ I’m yours _ , and you’re mine.”

He shivers— you  _ feel _ him shiver, because you’re right. He has you and you have him, right down to your bones, your muscles, your veins, everything that holds your bodies together. Bucky lifts you right from your feet, effortless, wrapping your legs around his waist, arms around his neck as he carries you deep into the loft you call home. 

You’re dropped onto the bed, bouncing against the mattress as he shrugs out of his suit jacket. You follow, shedding your jacket, pulling your top over your head, unhooking your bra. His fingers fumble with the button of your jeans, pull down on the zipper before he yanks the denim down your legs, pulling them over your feet, tossing them to the floor. Panties come next, his short nails scraping against your skin as he tugs them away, leaving you stark naked. Vulnerable. Fiending. Wanting to be owned by him again.

Bucky undresses slowly, an ice stare on you all the while, reaching out every now and again just to touch you. The pads of his fingers drift down your sternum, over your quivering stomach, through your slick folds. Your hips jerk into his hand, soft tits jiggle and bounce as you arch and roll— flesh electrified by his touch, galvanized by the warm, the heft, the skill of his hands. 

Tiny pants, pathetic, wet, whimpers push out of your mouth, your sex between your parted, drawn up legs throbbing— needy, achy, pulsing. You grab his hand, push it up your body, over your thick nipples, up your neck, over your chin and shove his salty fingers right between your lips, stuffing your mouth full. Moaning with satisfaction that he’s inside of you again. 

It’s been so long.

When he’s naked, hanging, dark hair splashed over his hard stomach, growing wiry and coarse as it delves lower, he pulls his digits from your mouth, dragging them down; down, down, down. Drawing circles around your nipples, tweaking and pulling at them just to make you clench and murmur. 

“This ain't new, baby. This is  _ real _ . How we feel right now,” he mutters, head tilted, eyes wandering, “Was felt by the ancients. I ain’t never felt this before you, and won’t after you. I know that, I feel that.”

You hum, rolling your head, arching your back, clenching your muscles as his fingers push on, down your stomach, sliding from hip to hip, “All we want is to know this vivid  _ moment _ — I've been chasing this since you left me, sugar. This feeling, I couldn’t— God, I thought I had lost it forever.”

“ _ Bucky _ ,” you whine, writhing beneath him, “ _ Baby _ .”

The ache is dulled suddenly. Another deep gasp swelling in your chest, a husky, scratchy groan exploding when two long, deft, fingers push into your cunt. They curl and stroke, slow, merciful— knowing what you need, giving it to you so you can calm down. His free hand cradles your left breast, fingers rolling that sensitive little nub as he fucks you slow. Your legs fall open, exposing all of you, arms going to liquid as your hips rock into his hand.

“That’s right, sugar,” he purrs, low and sweet, “Keep getting all sweet for me. You just surrender your limbs to my every whim. Who do you belong to? Hmm? Say it, baby.”

“ _ You _ ,” you cry, weak and small, “ _ You, baby, I belong to you. _ ”

“And I belong to you—  _ always _ .” He withdrawals from you, climbing onto the bed, his knees pressing into the mattress as he lifts your legs, placing them over his shoulders, “But you know that, don’t you sweetheart? Hmm? Deep down, you know that you own me.”

You nod again, fast, as you cry, tears streaking down the sides of your face, staining the bed below. Bucky bends forward, pushing your legs into your stomach and chest, his wet, red cock head brushing against your clit, coming to rest against your opening.

You grab his face, pulling him into you, kissing him hard as he pushes his hips, sinking, spreading you open with his invasion. Warm breath washes over your face as he disappears, your body swallowing him up— greedy and wanting. He grunts, loud and long, strained as your muscles clutch him tight. Forehead to forehead, reddened lips brushing, grabbing, brains foggy and intoxicated, reveling in the safety of each other.

“She meant nothing to me, I want you— I  _ need _ you to know that. Nothing. I was stupid,  _ selfish _ .”

He doesn’t move. Not right away. Just feels you. Your muscles— the warmth, the tight, how you cradle him so. How different you feel from  _ her _ ; how he doesn’t want to go back. Then he’s moving, slow drags of his hips, pushing back in, wet squelches of skin on skin, muscle in muscle, sounding soft with each thrust. 

Those fingers are back, back against your clit, rubbing at you. Quick, heavy slaps of his hand— the metal of his rings, the coolness of them against your balmy, sticky skin, vibrating right through you. You love this part. This delicate teetering between gentle and rough; the filth of his fuck. It’s dirty, deep, but somehow the sweetest, softest love you’ve ever felt. As his hips quicken, each plunge gets harder— the sharp slap of his skin against yours bouncing off the walls, the headboard banging— you’ve never felt so debased; yet, so  _ beautiful _ . Seen, for exactly who you are. 

You let your eyes roll and flutter, let your mouth go slack as your body lunges with each offered thrust. You wrap your hands around his biceps, digging your nails into his skin as his muscles flex. He hooks your leg around his arm, the other around his waist as he anchors himself with his hands, gripping fistfuls of the sheets as he slams into you hard and fast. His head hangs, a thick vein protruding from his forehead, chest tight, a deep red blooming across his tattooed skin, crawling up his neck. 

Bucky leans down, kisses your lips, fast, hard pecks before he licks into your mouth, grabbing your face, squeezing your cheeks, “He didn’t fuck you this good, did he? Hmm? Tell me, sugar.”

He squeezes your face harder, forcing your lips to pucker as you whimper, his pounding thrusts growing sharper, “ _ Fu-uck, no, he couldn’t fuck me like this— God, Bucky— _ ” 

“I know he couldn’t. Nobody can fuck my girl the way I can.”

He shoves his fingers back into your mouth, drops his head again, balls the sheets into his free hand. Fucks deep— so hard you can’t even catch your breath between your grunts and screams. Choking nearly. Your thighs start to burn, start to shake and tremor with the strain of his weight. The sharp hairs of the barely there, brand new stubble gracing his strong chin and cheeks cut into your neck and the side of your face as he nuzzles in. Teeth nip and scrape at your flesh, before sinking down, drawing out a sharp yelp from you, causing your hips to jerk hard. 

Pulling away, leaning back, his warm, mammoth palm closes around your throat, the tips of his fingers still pushing into your mouth. The other hand grips your thigh, nails biting into the skin as he pinches and squeezes  _ hard— _ bruising and scratching. Marking you. Claiming you as his again. 

A deep shudder passes through; stomach tightens, limbs twitch as you start to brace for the impact, racing towards it. You hold the wrist of the hand that’s around your throat as more tears slide down the sides of your face, wetting your hair and the sheets. Your legs, spread and bent at the knees, bounce with the force of his thrusts. Bitten off, breathy, choked sobs, low, scratchy growls melt together. Vision tunnels. Toes curl. Heat flushes. 

The coil snaps and you’re a mess of emotion and sensation. Your hips thrash, your sounds loud and heavy as you come, your cunt squeezing and relaxing around him with the contractions. Bucky grunts too, purring soft as he releases your thigh, dropping his hand to your sex, rubbing your clit— slapping, as it jumps. 

It’s consuming; the orgasm, Bucky, the hurt you’ve carried for months. It all manifests in this vivid moment, your face breaking as you openly sob— let it take control. His hips slow, they don’t stop, no, not all the way, but slow. He leans back down, covers your body with his weight as his eyes scan your face. Pushing his nose along yours, he murmurs soft, warm declarations. Wipes the tears away, kisses your wet cheeks and eyes— your soft, swollen lips. 

You’re a mess. Running makeup, stuffy nose, salty lips— he doesn’t care. You’re his again; lovers  _ again _ , cartwheeling. Bucky wraps you up, pushes you up the bed, turns you on your side, enters from behind. Hooks his long arm around your neck, grabs a handful of your tits, pushes his face right up against yours. His fingers toy with you, pressing, rubbing your clit as he fucks into you, skin slapping loud, tits bouncing again. 

“I hope you take more than I can give,” he mumbles, muffled and slurred, lips pressed right up against the side of your face as he shoves his hips into yours, not getting enough of you, “Take it all until there’s nothing left, that’s what you deserve, sweetheart. You take whatever you want from me, whenever you want it.”

You kiss him again, hard and hot, neck strained to meet his greedy lips. His tongue fucks into your mouth, licking the roof, massaging your tongue. Fingers grip your throat, “ _ Mine _ ,” you squeak as he tightens his grip, “ _ You’re mine _ .”

“I’m yours,” he cements with more kisses, “All yours.”

-

You’re sound asleep when Bucky slips out from underneath you. He pads around the bed, grabbing his discarded jacket to rummage through the pocket, pulling out his phone. He comes around, sits on the edge next to you, brushes his fingers over your face as he presses the phone to his ear. 

“Boss?”

“Do it.”

-

Sam drops the phone from his ear and slips it into his back pocket before pulling out a pair of black vinyl gloves. He walks slowly around the chairs positioned in the middle of the room as he shoves his hand into the tight glove, stretching his fingers gently before he lets the vinyl snap to his wrist. He moves to the next hand, flipping his eyes up to Clint’s, nodding slowly. 

Clint reaches behind, pulling out a small, black handgun, the grunts and groans of the men in the center room growing louder— chairs scuffing against the floor as they struggle. Clint keeps his eyes on them as he attaches the silencer, twisting it slowly into place. 

Sam takes a deep breath, pushing it out slow as he leans down behind the tied up Pietro, “You’re going to regret fuckin’ with Barnes’ girl.”

Pietro struggles hard, pushing his body against the back of the chair, pulling on the restraints around his wrist, biting down on the gag in his mouth, “You aren’t gonna ge’ ‘way wit’ ‘his,” he slurs, tongue heavy, “I promise you.”

Sam stands straight, pulling back on the slide to chamber a round. He points it directly at the back of Pietro’s head, Clint raising his at the forehead of Pietro’s right hand man, “I’m not gonna stress over it.”

Two loud shots ring out. Blood sprays, painting the walls.

Two heads slump over.

Sam grabs the phone from his pocket again, pressing it to his ear as a slow  _ splat, splat, splat _ of dripping blood sounds. It rings just once.

“It’s done.”

Bucky inhales deep, “Thank you Sam. Be careful.”

“Always.”

The line goes dead. Sam tosses the phone into the open bag Clint holds before ripping off the gloves and throwing them in as well,  **Let’s go.**

-

Nobody messes with Bucky’s girl and lives to tell the tale.

Nobody.


End file.
